


Robin Skills

by blythely, Sparcck



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Gen, Training Montage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:03:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blythely/pseuds/blythely, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcck/pseuds/Sparcck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's bad enough, really, that he has to learn how to sew, which doesn't sound as cool as "field dressing" (which didn't sound very cool to begin with), but the fingers on his right hand are starting to cramp in the hard cast he had to wear to "simulate potential field situations."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Robin Skills

**1\. Record-keeping**

No way. Dick's shoulders are twitching. They've been here all night and he's dying to do something. "I have to what?"

Batman takes a red marker and circles all the names, places, dates and outcomes on Robin's report. It makes Dick's heart sink, because he's just passed the Pitman Advanced test at school (Typing! The whole class was full of girls! Okay, maybe it wasn't so bad--) and the report, the first one he's typed on the computer, is a stupid mess now. "Cross-reference each of those with a note in the appropriate file."

Dick makes a pile of notes and looks forlornly at the silent computer. It's so much easier when he's dictating the number of goons per square foot of warehouse, but the input console is... damaged. Foot-shaped damage.

It's not _really_ his fault that there is no gym equipment this side of the cave.

"You should familiarise yourself with the paper files, Robin," Batman says, pulling a small object off his belt and tossing it to Dick. It's probably a key. Or a small firearm.

Dick sighs. More paperwork. If the boots made a scuffing sound, he'd toe the ground. "Where are they?"

Batman stands up from the microscope and pulls off a glove--gauntlet--so he can pick up a sandwich from the plate. "About three hundred feet down the bottom of the West Cave," Bruce smirks. "Eat before you go."

 

* * *

 

**2\. First Aid**

 

"It's not needlepoint, Master Dick."

Dick snaps his head up but Alfred has his eyes demurely fixed on his own work. It's bad enough, really, that he has to learn how to sew, which doesn't sound as cool as "field dressing" (which didn't sound very cool to begin with), but the fingers on his right hand are starting to cramp in the hard cast he had to wear to "simulate potential field situations."

"Like I know needlepoint," Dick mutters, and tugs awkwardly at the thick black thread. It's like jerking off left-handed. Except not as satisfying. And also way longer.

"It could be rather useful, young sir, if your figure eight stitch is any indication."

"Ha." Dick sits back and squints at his handiwork. "All closed."

A broad, warm hand falls on his shoulder, and Bruce's face appears over his shoulder; he's only in costume from the neck down. "Including his eye," he says, in Batman's voice.

Dick tilts his head a little to the left. Sure enough, Mr. Ballistic (who is not actually made of ballistics gel for this exercise, but Dick likes the name) is staring at him mournfully from one eye, his other one sewn partially shut.

Badly.

He grins sheepishly. "Best two out of three?"

 

* * *

 

**3\. Civic Duty**

"There's another matter." Dick can tell that Gordon is using his "Can I talk to you without the kid?" voice, so he jumps up on the railing and back handsprings until he's far enough away so that Gordon thinks he can't hear.

"It wasn't too much of a storage problem when they were just being sent here," Gordon says, and hands Batman what looks like a couple envelopes. "But then the Mayor's office called us and said they had some as well. And frankly, you could do with some good publicity."

Batman pauses. "Not an issue, Commissioner. These can be disposed of."

"I thought you might say that, but then there's the problem of the boy's--well. See for yourself."

Dick flips down and runs over. "What about me?" He peers at the envelopes in Batman's hand, which are all addressed to "MR BATMAN, GOTHAM CITY" and in kids' printing.

Gordon opens a large cardboard box--one of a stack of seven--and silently hands Dick a clutch of envelopes.

Batman twitches beside him. "I'll have them removed," he says tightly, but Dick thinks that might be because he's trying not to laugh.

The letters in his hand are decorated with hearts and glitter, and addressed to "ROBBIN THE BOY WONDR".

*

Bruce clears his throat disapprovingly as he comes down the stairs. "Are you ready?"

"Sure am." Dick places a letter in the "to keep" pile and smoothes it down. "Robin, twelve thousand and forty-eight, Batman, six."

"It's not a popularity contest, Dick. We're not doing this to seek approval."

"I know." Dick blinks while Bruce pulls the cowl on. "But it's nice to have."

 

* * *

 

**4\. Defensive Driving**

 

A. Choose Good Equipment

"...You'll note that they're even beginning to make fire trucks in a different color, because, as you well know, red is difficult to see at night."

Dick rubs his neck and tries not lick his lips at his reflection in the polished hood. "But isn't that the point?"

Alfred smiles and ruffles his hair in the way that only Alfred can, settling it back against his head. "Yes, in our special case, that is the point."

"Don't worry, I drove the trailer once," Dick offers, distracted by the way the light moves over the paint like liquid, "back in the circus."

Bruce is pulling up the cowl as he strides towards the car. "Robin," he says. "Mask."

Dick smoothes the mask on and grins sideways at Alfred. "This is so cool."

"Yes." Dick ignores the look Alfred gets from Bruce, the way he would ignore his parents talking over his head using just their eyes. Alfred clears his throat. "Just what I was going to say."

*

B. Before You Drive

The inside of the Batmobile (as Dick calls it in his head and he has to bite his lip against suggesting that Bruce update the car with some 28-inch chrome batrims) powers up with a hum, screens scrolling information Dick can't follow flickering to life.

He searches for something familiar: an oil gauge, odometer, a check engine light. A rearview mirror.

A gas pedal would be nice.

Bruce's mouth twitches. "Above you," he says.

There's a complicated series of switches. Dick flips them all. The seat adjusts, brings him up and forward, the steering column lowers and the gas pedal and brake are suddenly under his feet.

He eyes Batman's utility belt. "I hope you have a bat-registration in there," he quips.

"Don't get pulled over," Batman replies, shrugging into the passenger-side shoulder harness.

"Ignore cops. Check."

Bruce tugs Dick's own shoulder harness tight. "Drive."

*

C. See and Be Seen

Automatic is slightly more challenging than he'd expected it to be. Maybe because he's not used to zero to one-eighty in sixty seconds. His fingers twitch on the gearstick.

"This isn't a video game," Batman says, as Dick wrenches the car to the right, just barely managing to avoid the guard rail along the back path away from the manor.

"No," Dick grumbles, trying to keep an eye on the thermals, the radar and the sonar screens all at once, "it just looks like one."

"We'll take the hoods off the windows when you're used to driving blind."

Dick can't help checking in with the windshield every now and then, even though it's completely opaque, the grey-out not even showing his own reflection. Probably for the best. He doesn't need the see the cross of panic and euphoria he's sure his expression will freeze into once this is over.

Also, he's looking forward to the unspecified time in the future when looking at the car won't give him a hard-on. Thank god for jockstraps.

There aren't any turn signals, he realizes. He makes a series of fast, tight turns, and the sonar says they've come out on the Gotham Bay docks, heading north, toward Riverside Park.

"Cake," he says proudly.

Batman nudges his hand off the gearstick and depresses a button. The clutch smacks against Dick's shin and the car switches down, into fourth, grinding the gears until Dick can fumble his foot onto the pedal.

His heart is thumping in his throat and between his legs.

His dream of no stiffies melts away with Bruce's smooth laughter.

*  
D. Maintain an Exit Route

The car is heavier than the trailer, even, and Dick's arms ache from keeping the wheels straight after a few minutes.

Dick downshifts again as he pulls across all four lanes.

He doesn't ask where the oil slick button is, or the release for the giant tacks. Batman is stroking his chin, nodding when Dick moves from gear to gear.

No one honks when Dick maybe comes a little too close to someone's bumper, or when the car lurches because he didn't anticipate having to slam on the brake.

It's the West Side Highway in the meatpacking district at three in the morning. No one could see Batman if they weren't there.

Dick loves plausible deniability.

"Time," Batman says.

Dick grins when he releases two smoke bombs, pulling around fast to dive into oncoming traffic as the cars swerve out of the way, in all the directions Dick wants them to.

He switches back into automatic, leans back in his seat.

"Neat-o."

*

E. Avoid Danger

They have to pull over to stop three muggings and shoo a dog off the road. And by "they", Dick means "he".

"See ya, Ace," he says to the raggedy Great Dane, scratching him behind the ears.

He wonders if "he followed me home," would work.

*

F. Crash and Vehicle Break-Down Scenarios

"KITT could fix his own tire," Dick calls, wiping sweat and grease off his face, after spinning the last lugnut into place. Maybe 28-inch rims aren't so funny after all.

Batman shows him a digital stopwatch. "Again."

Dick scowls, mostly for show. He likes smelling like the motor oil. Sure beats cheap perfume and something tangy and salty that makes Dick almost sick with jealousy. "What's next, parallel parking?"

Batman just smiles.

*

G. Road Test

He doesn't even wait to get his uniform off, gets his hands down his shorts in the locker room, even though his muscles are so sore he can barely close his fingers around himself.

It doesn't seem to matter, since he comes in about three seconds flat, the sound of the engine cooling down pinging between his ears.

"Beat that, Batmobile," he says to no one, slithering down onto the floor, his head back against the bench. He can't wait until he can actually get his license and get his own car, the Batmobile, Jr.

"Stupid being fifteen," he grumbles, but half-heartedly, already deciding he'd have seat warmers in his, and more cupholders and the black inside would be as shiny as the black outside.

His cock twitches against his thigh and he looks down mournfully, petting at it with tired, numb fingers.

"Master Dick," Alfred calls. "Breakfast before bed."

Dick sighs and closes his eyes.

Stupid being fifteen.

 

* * *

 

**5\. Personal Grooming**

"Adductor muscle?"

Tim blinks, shakes his head as he puts on his seatbelt. He really, really doesn't want to have this conversation with Batman. Or Bruce. Or preferably anyone, ever.

"It's fine."

*

The next night he's very attentive with (oh _god_ ) where things go, when he puts on his suit. He'd watch Bruce, but he'd know, and it'd just be--

Maybe there are just some things he's meant to figure out on his own.

*

Until then it's just hideously painful.

*

Nightwing is patrolling Gotham, which means Dick comes back to the Cave and spends half an hour geeking out over the Kawasaki catalogue with Bruce.

Tim enters his notes into the computer as slowly as he can and times it perfectly so Dick is stripping off as Tim turns off the shower.

He grins and leers without subtlety at Dick. It's not a hardship, but this way, he has an excuse to discover what he needs to know--which is that Brazilian fashions aren't just for women.

Right.

*

The next night, Tim's on the mats stretching out a quad when a small box lands in front of him.

Depilatory cream.

He needs to hold this stretch. There's no way he's looking Dick in the eye.

"Take it from me, bro," Dick chirps on his way past, "razors are not your friend."

Tim looks wistfully across the Cave, where there are actually large holes to crawl into. "Thanks."

*

"Well?"

"What?" It's a stickywarm night on the rooftops; Tim's face feels flushed.

"Feel better?"

"It's not. A topic. For discussion."

Dick laughs and messes with Tim's hair. "You're lucky, kiddo. I had to have that conversation with Batman."

Tim gazes at Dick. "You're a prince among men."

"I know, grasshopper, I know," Dick says solemnly, and they jump off.

*


End file.
